Prologue

Nigel shivers in the night cold in the woods of Vermont. The sky is a deep blue, and the trees create lengthy shadows stretched along the ground. The wind howls, as it always does year round. He doesn’t have adequate clothing. He is wearing black, all black. Black tunic, black leg gripping pants. Combat boots, black. Backpack, black. Stylish beanie, black. Swiss army knife, black. He is quiet, silent, and the rabbit doesn’t know that he will die in sacrifice for Nigel’s stomach. This looming tree doesn’t allow him to see it, but then again, the rabbit can’t see him. Unlike so many other things he has killed, this rabbit wouldn’t suffer before dying. This rabbit wasn’t trying to hurt him, to shatter his dreams.  It was a force of nature, a piece of art that was part of the scenery, a bee in a bee’s nest. The rabbit just exists.

Chapter 1

“Monte, sir!”

“Yes?” He turns around, his face showing the disrespect he has for the lower ranks. No one had ever climbed as fast or as nimbly up the ranks as he did. He despised himself when he started out for being a low rank was a disgrace. You either climb quick or not at all.

“We just got word in of another murder, this time of Bruce Tobin.”  He grips his desk, his knuckles growing white. The two of them had hung  out in their early days, before either grew famous and old and wrinkly. “Sir? Are you, okay?”

“Fine, fine.” He didn’t realize he was spacing off. He never spaced off. Monte threw on his military-esq police coat, a dark blue that reflected his mood at the moment. Curtis  looks startled, almost if he didn’t expect the ‘old man’ to be running around like a young’un. “So, are you coming?” Monte was nearly out the creaky door, still painted pink from when the police station was a preschool.

“Y-es!” As much as he hated lower ranking officials, Curtis was growing on him like a beautiful flower to a stick lodged into the ground. It was almost like Curtis was using him to get higher then him. To get closer to the sun. Curt was going to be an Icarus, and Monte would be safely out of reach.

The car ride was a series of flashes of trees and pavement and the constant music of the police siren. Monte let Curtis drive, but that was his mistake. Curtis was young, only sixteen, and he just got his driver's license. They zoomed in and around other cars, barely missing them, and skidding the pavement as they turned a corner. By the time they had arrived, Monte was gripping his seat in distress. On the way back, I will definitely drive. Monte composed himself, brushing down his suit, and he pulled himself out of the automobile, using his thick muscles to lift his torso out of the car, gripping the top of plastic and metal hulk of a machine. Of course, Curtis was already running, sprinting towards the yellow caution tape. Monte sauntered over, clearly in no rush to get things over with and to solve a murder. Maybe there won’t be any murder to solve, he thought. Maybe it was just some fake blood and a practical joke gone too far. As he got closer, though, he realized that his wild fantasy was unreal. Bruce was really dead. Bruce was lying crooked on the grass, blood seeping into the dirt. His mouth was sewn shut, his eyes were stabbed with two sewing needles and his ears were sewn to his skin. The murderer even went as far as to write a note in Bruce’s blood. It said,

Bruce Tobin heard no evil, spoke no evil, and saw no evil.

Love,

Sewing Needle

Tears suddenly dripped down Monte’s face, and he was taken aback. It was yet another occurrence that hadn’t happened in years but suddenly, they were coming back. First, the spacing off, and then this. Crying. Monte was in love with Bruce all along, even as young boys. Monte loved the way Bruce handled himself, pushing with all his might against the ground to get the merry-go-round going and then he’d jump on, laughing and raising his fist in triumph. Monte, at first, envied him. He was of course, bigger and more mature and he had already learned how to ride a bike, albeit it was one with training wheels. Monte had his sisters when she was first learned how to ride, a teal and orange one that Monte never liked. And then, that day happened. The one that would change both their lives forever.

Snap out of it Monte, he thought. Curtis was already moving around, using the official crime notebook to jot down the “witnesses” (people who saw Bruce after the fact), and the one item that Bruce had in his hand. A photograph of his child, Nigel Anderson Tobin, currently residing in a tent in The Hollow Forest.  Nigel was a cute kid back then, before he went all dark and tall and moody.  

“Curt, can you contact the family and help them arrange a funeral?”

“Yes sir.” Curtis quickly saluted, and jogged off to the car, his tails flapping behind him, caught in his own wind. His persian blue boots clomped on the pavement, sending tiny vibrations down into the earth. He slammed open the car door, knocking a neighbour’s trash can over and sending its contents, some of which were very unpleasant, out into the street. Sometimes he can be such a clutz. And literally too. Curtis Clutz Mackenzie. His father was a clutz too. It runs in the family.  Curtis scrambled around, picking up gross garbage.  Not only is he a clutz, he’s an idiot.

“Curt! Stop that! We have gloves!” Monte yelled, waving the blue nitrile glove box in the air.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Just come and get them!”

“Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry!”

“Sorry, sir. I am really sorry.” He is trying to be a jokester, infusing his words with the malice of sarcasm. I, no, we, have no time to waste. We have a murder to solve.

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

“Get over here or there’ll be consequences.” He’s like a bad dog, obediently trotting over with his head hung over.  

“Sir?” Curtis timidly asked, staring up at Monte, using his puppy dog eyes that seemed to melt everyone’s frail hearts, softening them up enough until the heat of their blood melted their hearts into a gooey liquid that poured into their veins. Monte was strong, heart wise, for he had suffered as a teenager and grew a fortified barrier around it to protect it from love. In Monte’s mind, love always hurt, and there was no point in trying to love if the outcome was pain.

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“Buce, Buce, guess what?” An amethyst colored playground appears. Monte and Bruce, swinging on swings, their bodies whipping back and forth through the air.

“What?” Bruce is seven, and Monte is five.

“I got a new tuck! Look!” Monte reaches into the depths of his sweatshirt, pulling out a bright candy red fire truck, equipped with the amazing feature of opening and closing doors.

“That is cool!” Bruce is jealous of Monte. With a truck like that, he could save all the people in the world. Bruce’s fire truck is a dull red that groans when it rolls down the imaginary streets of Candy. And then, the unthinkable happens.

Bruce

Falls

Off

His

Swing.

Bruce hits the ground hard, and lands flat on his back, knocking the air out of him. Monte jumps off his swing and rushes to his friend.

“Buce? Buce?” Bruce can’t breathe. He’s been through this before, so he just waits. He is surprisingly calm for having just fallen and lost his breath. Bruce is trying to cry, but he can’t.  No one comes to the rescue, and Monte realizes this is his chance. He starts to run to his mother, who is idly chatting on a park bench in the shade, so he can be the superhero who saves the world. Bruce regains his breath, his tears coming out and his breath going in. He just sits for a while, trying to get past the shaky breath that has been plaguing him for a few minutes. Monte arrives at the moms, out of breath, and too late. They’ve already seen Bruce, lying on the ground and crying, and their parenting instincts kick in. They’re racing towards Bruce, hair flying and eyes struck with panic. Monte is left on his own, in their dust, and even in his tiredness, he creates a pinky promise with himself, a pact solidified with his left and right pinkies.

“I will be a supeheo when I gow up.” And that was how Monte decided, even as young as he was, that he wanted to be a police officer.